


Good Boy

by charliewalkertexasranger



Category: Divergent - All Media Types, Divergent Series - Veronica Roth
Genre: Alternate Universe - Age Changes, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Belly Kink, Blow Jobs, Daddy Kink, Don't Try This At Home, Feeding Kink, Fetish, Food Issues, Hand Feeding, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, M/M, One Shot, Self-Esteem Issues, Smut, Stuffing, Unhealthy Relationships, Weight Gain, Weight Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-19
Updated: 2018-03-19
Packaged: 2019-04-04 17:50:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14025462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/charliewalkertexasranger/pseuds/charliewalkertexasranger
Summary: If the old me, the me that used to cry the night before a check-up and eat healthy for a week in an effort to lose weight before giving up and eating everything in sight, saw what I am doing now, he'd think I'm crazy.





	Good Boy

**Author's Note:**

> **UPDATE 2/11/19:** I grew out of _Divergent_ , this pairing is shitty, and this fic doesn't even turn me on, but y'all seem to like it so I'm just going to lock it to members only and call it good.

"Good boy, Drew."

Peter's approval sends a burst of warmth through my chest. I look down.

Below my naked body, my feet teeter on either end of the scale, toes facing away from the glowing green number. Even though it's a feminine stereotype, scales always used to make me nervous, and I still associate the feeling of standing on one with aching in my chest and a lump bobbing in my throat. I never used to like going to the doctor, because he'd always make me weigh myself after months of being able to avoid the scale, and, usually, the number he recorded was much higher than I wanted it to be.

It never left the high end of a healthy range, but my weight was never really been anything I could take pride in, and why should it have been? Though I was never really the fat one, and there was always, without fail, someone fatter than me, I _felt_ like the fattest boy in the room, just from build alone. I have broad shoulders, and thick thighs, and a wide stance, with big, heavy forearms like some kind of very effeminate gorilla, and sheets of muscle along my back. I'm what you would legitimately call big-boned. Most people think that's a term you use around someone who's fat but not quite qualified to be on _My 600-lb Life_ , but it definitely has legitimate use. Some people are just built bigger than others.

Of course, I wanted to look like The Rock without weighing as much as The Rock. If I'd ever been able to stand the idea of bulking, I'd have done pretty well, I think, given that I was already muscular naturally. But I never put in the effort, and I never found satisfaction in my body, let alone in the numbers associated with it.

If the old me, the me that used to cry the night before a check-up and eat healthy for a week in an effort to lose weight before giving up and eating everything in sight, saw what I am doing now, he'd think I'm crazy.

And maybe I am.

Peter talked me into it. We've been friends since we were in elementary school, and lovers since a certain middle school experience where we may or may not have touched each other's cocks as an experiment while playing some generic shoot-em-up game at his house, and even though he knew how I struggled with my self-esteem, he talked me into it. He found the right things, and he said them, said them like they didn't have any consequences or implications, and I fell apart.

That's always been a skill of his. He could convince the sun that it sets in the north. He could defuse the tensions between North and South Korea in under five minutes over a Skype call. He could do almost anything with those words of his, so playing me like a guitar was not difficult for him to do.

I'm not the quickest of wit, either. There's really no reason for him to like me except that I like him so much.

And, of course, this.

It's probably about time I mention what _this_ is. Maybe it was easy to figure out, from the context of the situation, how he's got me on a scale, how he's whispering sweet little encouragements to me from where he stands, observing the difference. Maybe it wasn't that easy to see. Whatever it was, it's probably not that vanilla, next to a lot of other kinks.

I intentionally gain weight to please him.

It started off small, after that first talk where he somehow managed to persuade me into letting him be my feeder; I think he didn't want to shock my digestive system. When he wants to be, he can be as sweet as he is charming.

Small meant a lot of things. It meant an extra helping here and there, a little more dressing on the salads he told me were going to be my last if he ever got a say in it, a handful of something energy-dense like candy or nuts where one wasn't before.

And he was lucky that my earlier fear of weight gain was well-placed, because I had the slowest metabolism known to man, and it did not take long for things to settle into place.

The initial gain came gradually over about four weeks. It began with me noticing at work that my pants were a little tighter around the thighs than normal. I wasn't yet internally leaping at the chance to get fat for Peter yet, even if, when around him, I would always smile and laugh and say nothing that could possibly, in any context, imply that I wasn't happy with what he'd asked me to do, because, really, I was quite happy with it. After all the love he's given someone like me, someone who is entirely undeserving of love, any chance to please him in any way leaves me anxious to perform it. I mean, I used to read the blowjob tips in women's magazines he always makes fun of me for reading until I could feel my heart ramming against my sternum as I counted away in my head the time that would need to pass before I could try them all and see what made him squeal. But those internal attitudes toward a potential weight gain would take forever to dismantle. It was a given, after having suffered underneath them for so long. I chalked up the discomfort to the way I was sitting and called it good.

Of course, we didn't stop driving up my intake there. That would have been counterproductive. He kept finding spots in my current diet to bolster, and I kept taking his suggestions, and soon, one morning, as if it had all happened overnight, I couldn't fit into my pants, and we had to make a date to go shopping.

Peter seemed quite excited by that; when I showed him that the button wasn't quite buttoning the way it once had, he told me that he was surprised I'd gotten so fat so quickly with his halfhearted approach. He told me that he was very proud of me, and that he loved me more than life itself, and that I was going to get so much fatter before he threw in the towel.

I couldn't help the showers of praise flowing onto me; I smiled. I _smiled_ and I actually meant it. All of the shame and guilt of the past that I would have felt if I'd gained weight without him had seemingly disappeared. I was happy, and he was happy, and all was right with the world again.

I was practically volunteering for the stuffings, then.

Money was never an issue. Peter has a much better degree than mine, and he makes a lot of money as an analytics manager at a big software company. We're both only twenty-four, so he's very young to have such a comfy job, but perhaps that's just a result of his charm. I don't think he's ever had more than a handful of unsuccessful job interviews in his entire life, even when we were teenagers and he kept getting fired for stupid shit.

I work loss prevention at a Target to supplement our income because I love it and I feel a need to provide for him, even if he's the main breadwinner. Peter's income is more than enough for us to live on comfortably, stuffings included, and when I do get too big to be on my feet all day, I'll have to quit. The knowledge that I'm Peter's personal pig will more than counteract the loss of satisfaction at being productive, though.

The first night it happened, I came home from work, and Peter was there, earlier than I am, as usual, because most comfy jobs run nine-to-five, not long into the evening. Except, this time, there was a surprise. He'd ordered out from four different places and bought a half-gallon of peanut butter ice cream, and he'd set it all up on the coffee table so he could lie next to me on the couch and stroke my belly while I ate. He sat there and fed me every bite; I got down to the end of the ice cream before I began gagging on what I'd already ingested, and we had to stop. A few hours later, as I was sitting in front of the television, processing the crazy overfeeding he'd done to me, he gave me the rest, and that was when I knew that, no matter the consequences to my body, no matter what happened between us, no matter how quick I'd plow past the heaviest I've been in my entire life, this was the life for me.

I could eat whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted, and never feel guilty. In fact, when I finished, I would feel... good. I would feel satisfied, a sense of mastery. I would feel like Peter loved me, to keep spending all his money and time to make sure I'm well-fed. I tolerated it, I accepted it, and then, I liked it.

That was about a month and a half ago, and in that time, I've gained quite a bit, testing the restraints of my new wardrobe. And, just now, we find out how much I put on under Peter's care.

Peter moves eagerly around me, examining from all angles my sagging starter belly and wide love handles and juicy thighs and the flab coming up from my breasts to cover my once-prominent collarbone.

182.4.

I'm overweight for the first time since puberty, and not even marginally so. I'm not a small guy, but I'm shorter than average and I don't come close to breaking six feet—this gives me a BMI roughly halfway between overweight and obese.

I know BMI fairly well without using a calculator, just from memory. When I was younger, and obsessed with my weight, I used to test myself constantly, whenever I shifted an ounce, hoping and praying that when I gained, I didn't change numbers, and that when I lost, I did. It was bordering on an eating disorder, the unhealthy way I viewed myself, and the irrational decisions I made; now, I think I still have a disorder, if we define disorder as anything deviating from the norm that is harmful, but it's far, far in the other direction, and it's all influenced by Peter.

Peter having full control over my size and weight makes me very, very comfortable. It's like I don't have to worry anymore. As long as I'm a little fatter than I was the day before, he'll be pleased, and getting fat is so easy when he can directly influence every bite that goes into my mouth. Letting Peter control me has never been this easy or this, dare I say it, _fun_. I get to let go and never stress about my body, and Peter gets something he likes in my new fatty covering. I get to prove my loyalty, and Peter gets his kink massaged. It's everything I could ever want out of being with Peter. I literally do not have the capacity to want anything more than this.

"God," Peter says, prodding the lump of fat between my breast and my gut, where a little roll would be, if I were sitting. "You've gotten so fat."

A smile tugs at the corners of my mouth; I don't fight it. I rarely fight what Peter makes me feel.

"I know. Aren't you happy?"

I know he is. There's a huge grin on his face, exposing all of the teeth in the front of his mouth, and his green eyes are round and glinting with joy; he can't keep his hands off me, and they're all over my sides and grabbing at the slabs of my hips, right where the fat settles, and sliding down my fat ass like I'm made out of glitter and he's about to take his first shift as the tooth fairy. But I need reassurance. I cannot function correctly without more praise.

"Yeah," he says. "Of course I am."

He reaches again, to grab the little bit of belly that dangles over my groin. I feel a twinge shooting through the shaft of my cock, tightening my sack. I want him to fuck me. Maybe he'll fuck me, after this. He'll be so worked up, and so proud of me that there'll be no choice, for us. We'll have to fuck so hard that the neighbors will hear him groaning and throwing me against the bed.

Yeah, I like that. I want him to fuck me real hard, until my ass is throbbing in agony and I can't sit down for a damn week; I want him to rip me open and pound me like I belong to him, which I do. I want to feel his erection grinding inside my hole, and I want him to feed me chocolate while he makes me cum. I want all of that, nothing less, nothing less than every bit of him, every—

Peter gives my gut another pinch. He holds it there, as if to show it to me like I haven't seen any of it before.

"Imagine how big this'll be in two months. Imagine how fucking fat you'll be," he says, pinching tighter.

I let out a squeal of delight. I do imagine. It's not realistic for two months, not even close, but I do imagine a lot of things. I imagine being so fat that the only thing I can do is open and shut my eyes and maybe lift a finger. I imagine getting fed every day by tube and gaining even more weight. I imagine looking more like an alien landscape than a human being. I imagine my struggling lungs, my cardiovascular system sputtering with the grease clogging my blood, my liver practically paté and butter. I won't even be able to think, because my brain will be clogged with fat, and every painful breath of oxygen I take will not be wasted on unnecessary processes like thinking, but used to consume more, more, _more_ , and grow ever more obese. I'll be so obese they'll make television shows about me, and Peter will get paid to show off his prize pig. It would be heaven, to get that big, no matter how long it takes.

"I want to be your pig, Daddy," I say, looking down at him.

"What was that?" He looks up.

"I want to be your fat pig, Daddy."

He puts his arms around my increasingly widening waist and ushers me off the scale. I long for the feeling of his arms around my flab as he breaks away and goes to put it back, sliding it behind the towel rack where it belongs, followed by a metallic clang. It will turn itself off with inactivity, but I doubt that Peter would remember to turn it off if he needed to. He's too occupied with me.

My chest feels warm and light; all is good, between Peter and I. All is perfect. I am happy, and he is happy, and it's all because of my weight gain.

I would have accepted it all before if I knew that this was what it took to make him happy.

"You want to be my fat fucking pig," he says. "Hmm?"

I feel something stir in my cock. I'm getting hard. I must be.

I can't wait until I have to struggle for several minutes just to reach my gut, and then I have to lift it out of the way and find my buried cock down in all of my flab. I can't wait until I'm so obese that I depend on Peter entirely for my sexual pleasure, and I never have to think about him fucking me, because the only time I'll be feeling anything sexual is when his cock is deep in my aching asshole, rubbing everything together between my massive, flabby cheeks. It will happen, and it will happen sooner than either of us think. One day, the gaining will get ahead of us, and it will happen as if overnight that I'm nearly immobile.

If we want to get to that point, of course. Sometimes I think Peter doesn't want to have the burden of caring for me. But I want to get big; I want to be entirely dependent on him.

The thoughts are enough to get me stiff.

"Oink," I moan. "Oink, oink."

"Does our good piggy need a treat?"

Peter's pupils have expanded into huge, round black pools, and his eyes themselves seem like saucers against his thin, toned face. I can't say no to those eyes and that smile.

Not that I wanted to. I equate treats with fattening, and fattening with pleasure. I weigh everything against whether or not Peter will pat my head and kiss me in gratitude afterward, and accepting a treat, or, really, a stuffing, is the best way to make Peter very pleased with me.

"Oink!" I squeal, high and delighted, as if to agree.

Peter drops down to his knees, quickly and effortlessly, like it doesn't hurt him at all to land on his kneecaps like that. They say your mobility goes down as your weight goes up, but, really, even now, I would find trouble doing that with all the extra blubber I'm carrying. Now he's at my groin level. It's suggestive. He's inches away from my hard, starving cock, bunched up near my thigh and begging to be so much as kissed or poked. In preparation for the impact, the pattern of my heartbeat significantly increases in my chest, until I can feel the pounding reverberations rocking my ribcage.

He puts a hand on my hip; his fingertips ooze electricity and shoot lava through my skin, lava that flows from my hip to my head to my heart and through my soul. It lurches through my body and makes my stomach knot up into my throat. Here he is, touching me. Choosing me to be his pig when there's at least a hundred million other boys just as attractive, cute, and funny as me, meaning that I'm not all that great. But, despite my faults, he chose me. He chose _me_  to become his pig. He chose me, and I will never regret it, because I trust in his choice. If he thinks I should be his pig, then I will be his pig.

"Daddy will fix you a snack in a minute, baby," he says, leaning in closer until his hot breaths caress my skin. "Let's see what we've got going on down here."

I melt inside; everything feels hot and fuzzy. I want it so bad. What's he going to do to me?

His fingers find the weeping tip of my cock, and I shiver. I glance down, to survey what he's doing to me.

My cockhead is a violent, angry red, leaking a stripe of hot, wet precum. I've gotten myself very, very hard, just by thinking, just by having Peter standing so close to me and encouraging me to imagine my impending morbid obesity. Peter kneels there, looking up at me. His lips are less than an inch away from the tip of my cock.

He's going to blow me.

He doesn't blow me very often. He loves to do it, and he takes pride in his ability to leave my heart thundering and my soul weaving in and out of my body with an earthshattering climax, but he just doesn't seem to find the time, or something, and this act has only become rarer with the advent of stuffings and how they take up most of our time together.

As his lips wrap tightly around my cock, bringing me into the tight tunnel, I let out a tiny moan, released just through my teeth. I breathe a bit, testing the inside of his hot, wet mouth. It feels so good and he hasn't even started. The feeling that I won't last very long nags at my soul, as if to say that no matter how great I feel, no matter the sensations gripping my hardened, weeping cock, I will always be inadequate.

But, with Peter here, I don't really mind. Of course I am to feel inadequate around him. He is so much better than I could even imagine being.

He starts to suck, sloppy, without form. It is deliberate, I think, the way his tongue laps over my shaft as it goes down and fills the throat that must be aching—he's done controlled, and calm, before, and, though it seems like an oxymoron, calm can be rough, and even that roughness did not make him lose his control. He knows I'll like it, and sometimes I think he knows me better than I know myself, so I let him proceed and do as he wishes for me.

I doubt I'll last that long; pressure is already building in my sack as he starts to introduce me deeper, down into his throat. If I hold my head just the right way, I can see the bulge forming in his neck as he lets me in further. Tears glisten in his eyes, and beads of saliva swell on his swollen, reddened lips, but his gaze does not leave mine.

This is an act of dominance. He is in full control of my pleasure. He could stop or start or rush or halt or do whatever he pleases and force me to face the consequences of his actions while he gets away with nothing.

I stare down at hollowed cheeks and tousled hair and fingers wrapped around the base of my aching hard-on. Peter lets out a little gagging noise, like something's caught in this throat; I know he has full control over what he's doing, and he only did that to tease me. He knows I like seeing him choking on my little lump of a cock, as if it's much larger than it really is, and more like _his._

His mouth is so hot, so wet, and I can't seem to even piece my thoughts together properly as he fucks my hungry cock in and out of his tight entrance, filling him up and claiming his juicy lips as my own for a time innumerable. God, it feels so good. I want to hold him until time no longer exists. I want to run my hands down his sides and kiss him and have his body pressed tight against mine. He's so, so good to me, the gaining, the constant proofs of love, and I can't do this anymore—

A familiar fire shoots through my gut, into my hollow chest, and suddenly, I am bucking, moaning, crying out for attention and for Peter; I can't seem to control my movements, because the pleasure coursing through me is too much. Peter's eyes shut as he prepares to swallow my load. I let go. I cum hard into his mouth, and for the first time in a while, I am feeding him instead of him feeding me.

When the feeling fades out into nothingness, he lets go of my cock and sits there, panting with ragged breaths that send his visible ribs swelling out only to curve inward again. He hasn't taken much of a breath since my tool entered his mouth, and for a moment, we both rest there, rendered weak and useless by the gravity of what we've just done with each other.

We're going to have quite a size difference, when I get bigger. I already look like a pile of lard next to Peter. It wasn't always like that. I didn't even have a little roll that hung over my belt. I was big and solid and just generally heavy in that regard, and next to Peter, I just looked like a boulder built out of muscle and size, silent and ready to restate whatever he just said. Now I'm much heavier, but I have a visible gut and fat on my arms and around my neck. Soon, I'll have big hamhock arms and a double chin, and next to fit Peter and his abs, I'll seem very out-of-shape. People might even question why we're together, or wonder if I'm just the most charming young man in the world when Peter introduces me as his long-term boyfriend.

Peter looks up at me again, still frozen in his kneel. I let out a breath.

"Thank you, Daddy," I whisper.

Peter grins. "Good pig."

Then he's rising to his feet, and taking my forearm, and leading me into the kitchen. The floorboards in the hallway creak under our weight; I really am getting fat.

He seats me in the chair at our dining table in the kitchen, and though I expect him to touch me, and tell me I'm a good piggy again, he doesn't, and instead, he walks away, leans down, and starts to fish through the cabinets where we keep sandwich bags and tinfoil and cling wrap.

After a moment, Peter walks over again, a grocery bag dangling from his fist. There's something black inside of it, so tall that the top stands out of the plastic. It's a bag of potato chips basically the size of my torso, or what my torso would be before I started eating like this. I pray to a god I don't know of that he wants me to eat it all. I wonder how many calories it has. I want to be a good boy, and the only way I can be a good boy is if I eat very high-calorie foods. If I eat high-calorie foods, I'll get fat, and if I get fat, Peter will love me more than he does now. I have to have it.

I _have_  to.

"I hid this from you for a moment like this," he says, big grin still stuck on his face from the moment he quit deepthroating my cock. "Eat up."

He doesn't even bother to take them out of the bag before he opens them up and shoves them on the table in front of me. The scent of salt and fat, the drugs of choice of a fat boy, wafts through the air as the chips shift in the bag. My mouth starts to water, and though I've just been pleasured, I feel my pulse run through my cock as I begin to harden up again. Being young has some benefits.

I realize that, if I grow to the extent I want to grow, I'm only going to experience being young. Neither Peter nor I refuse to acknowledge the horror this will be for my lifespan. I probably won't break forty, if I hit immobility. I'll have a heart attack or suffocate beneath the weight of all my fat in my sleep. If I stop now, I could probably live into my eighties, and maybe even lose some weight so I don't end up with diabetes. But where's the fun in that? Peter wants me fatter.  _I_ want me fatter. I want to get so big that my organs fail and my heart is under constant strain. I want to be a gelatinous mass of gluttony, and that is how I will live my short life.

I will be happy.

Peter starts for the fridge; is he going to eat, too? I swear Peter has actually lost a little weight since we started. He was never close to fat, with exposed abs and toned muscles, but now, when I see him naked, he seems even more toned and defined than before. He's been neglecting his own diet to feed me, and there's something beautiful in that. He cares about me. He cares about me a lot, enough to suffer for me, enough to risk losing his beautiful muscles.

In the fridge, there's an obvious divide between our food. Peter eats cod and chicken and lots of green stuff. I suck down garbage like every bite I eat gets Peter one minute closer to becoming the sole ruler of the world.

That would be a delightful world. Everyone would come together to provide me with food to grow into an amorphous blob of adipose. I'd get so big that I wouldn't even be identifiable as human; I'd grow too large for the bed Peter would put me on, until I spilled out on the floor. He'd make them all worship me, like a sacred cow, and after my sputtering heart finally gave in, he'd probably find some slab of muscle intermingled with all the juicy fat and eat me to gain my powers of growth for his own uses as a king. That would be the most intimate thing we could ever do.

Peter shifts through our stuff; at first, I think he's making himself something to eat.

Until he pulls out a package of sausages.

My stomach rumbles. I want to eat those. Contrary to popular belief, sausages are much worse for you than bacon. They're somehow fattier than strips of fat itself, but the fat is interspersed with the meat, so no one really notices. But I don't really mind either way. No matter what it is, if it's greasy, Peter will probably make me drink all the grease, too. He likes to make me drink grease and oil, even though I usually have to spend a couple of hours either lying in bed sick or vomiting afterward. He sits there next to me and rubs my stomach and talks about how my arteries are going to get all blocked and narrow, and how hot it'll be when I go in for a check-up and the doctor tells me I have heart disease and big plaque blockages in my coronary arteries and that I have to lose weight and have a triple bypass to make it another six months. I think he gets off on the idea of me getting so big that I become unhealthy, and if he gets off on it, I get off on it.

Since I'm hungry, I go for the chips, as an appetizer. It's the biggest appetizer I've ever eaten, but damn, it's good, to feel the grease and the crystals of salt on my fingers and the fat coating my tongue. I shut my eyes as I eat and imagine it all going straight into my heart. I imagine the milestones, like getting winded after walking a flight of stairs, and passing into obesity, and not being able to buckle a seatbelt. I imagine the little things, like going up a size, and popping a button, and my first chest pains. I imagine the invisible things, like my heart clogging with grease and my liver turning yellow and my insulin no longer doing what it should. It is enough.

I shove another handful of chips into my mouth, and before I'm finished with that one, I'm pushing in another. Peter's gotten out a frying pan and started up the stove. Good. I want to smell that food and be mentally undressing it onto a plate in front of me before I even finish _this_  food. That's what a good fatty does. And I want to be a good fatty. My hand enters the bag again.

"Someone was hungry," Peter says, without turning back to face me. "I hope those don't kill your appetite."

His voice is soft and kind and reassuring. His tenderness only strengthens my desire to get fatter for him; I take more chips, even though I'm not quite done chewing the ones I just put in my mouth.

"Never," I sputter through a mouthful.

Peter looks over to me. There's a smile oozing over his face, a display of amusement at how absurd I probably look, with my fat fingers stained shiny with grease and my naked body coated in crumbs.

"Good," he says.

He grabs the bottle off the counter and pours a good amount of oil into the heating pan. When he thinks he's added enough, and he stops, he second-guesses himself and adds a little more.

He really is dedicated to fattening me up. I've never seen Peter doubt himself, even doing risky things. As teens, we used to do a lot of dumb stunts, to show off. That was a long time ago, back when we weren't openly gay, back when my mother kept asking when I'd start dating girls, but I remember it clearly. His most daring act was to parkour between two apartment buildings, back and forth, back and forth, so our friends Al and Molly, who'd found a stopwatch in a strip of grass near our high school earlier that morning, could count the number of times he went across in thirty seconds. He looked at me, and looked at Molly, and then at Al, and then, he jumped. He did fucking flips over and more flips back. If he misjudged one jump, he wouldn't be here right now, and I probably wouldn't either, because I cannot imagine a world without him. But during the entire ordeal, doubt never flashed in his eyes. During the entire ordeal, he never spoke a single word of hesitance. But here? He did hesitate. He didn't think he was doing a good enough job at making me put on weight.

I take another handful of chips, faster this time, and I zone in, trying my hardest to be quick. I want all that fat and salt inside me. I want it all to go straight to my thighs, until they are round and flaccid and I don't fit in my pants anymore. I want to weigh so much that I break chairs, and crack bedframes. I want to get out of breath walking across a room. I want my organs to be unrecognizable and my heart to swell and my stomach to be stretched to the size of a watermelon.

I want to be _fat_.

That is what I think about as I shovel more chips into my mouth. Fatness. Extreme fatness. Belonging to Peter and being his fat little prize pig, getting to the point where I can't walk or move or do anything but sit and consume.

I want it bad. Almost as much as I want these chips.

The distant crackling of cooking food shakes me from my thoughts; Peter is putting the sausages in the pan. Soon, they'll be done. By then, I want to have finished this bag of chips. Peter will be very proud of me. Maybe he won't even turn around and I'll be finished before he notices I even got halfway.

If I thought about getting fatter as a motivation before, now, I think about making Peter happy. I think about surprising him with my gluttony.

My jawbone aches dully from opening to ram in food without break or pause, and there's a jagged shard of chip stuck between my teeth. I figure the painful bit of chip will eventually disintegrate or be crushed, and no longer cause me any pain, but I'm not sure about my jaw. Maybe I'll wake up tomorrow with it so sore I cannot eat. Peter would just buy some more ice cream and make me nice, fattening shakes until I could eat again, and I'd be proud to literally have injured myself eating like a pig with a thyroid problem, so I continue on, even faster now. Peter deserves this. It is all for him.

I'm a little more than halfway through the bag; I steady my pace, so it is less erratic, and it does not veer from slower to faster. I barely taste the chips, barely feel their crunching against my teeth, but what I do feel, I am in love with. I'm a slave to fatty foods and weight gain and Peter's love. I'm a slave to it all, and now, I would not have it any other way.

"You're going crazy on those, aren't you?" Peter says. He pokes around his spatula in the pan and glances over his shoulder to me.

I nod and swallow, then reach out for more chips.

Peter looks back to the pan and laughs, rich and high and bold in his throat. "I'm so lucky to have a hog like you. Get ready for round two."

I watch him as I eat, and listen to the snap of the grease leaping from the confines of the pan. It is bubbling, and bubbling loudly, and now, there's a smell rising in the air, of yet more salt and fat. The rich, greasy smell of processed meat in particular makes me very hungry, because I know that's one of the key foods that will clog my arteries and cause my organs stress. I don't plan to live long enough to see cancer, but if I somehow, miraculously, make it to fifty, cancer could very well be in my future, with the amount of carcinogenic meat Peter fixes me.

Peter sort of dances around as he works, shuffling each sausage around to brown them. I can't see exactly what he's doing, but his hand motions tell enough. I got so lucky, to meet a guy who'd treat me like this, who'd fix all my meals and never make me do any work. I don't often pull a good card in life, and here I am, throwing away my health, and I still got the immeasurable gift of an attractive dream partner who acts like I'm a prince. Sure, it might be for his own benefit, but that does not change how special I feel when he's doing things for me.

I continue to eat. The bottom of the bag is in sight now, obscured only by a few broken bits. There's a throbbing cramping in my stomach, protesting the amount of food I introduced, but I ignore it. I don't really mind, anymore, because the feeling is going away. A couple of months ago, this might have killed me, to eat so much. Right now? I don't mind it. Not at all.

When Peter abandons his post and comes to sit down across from me, I crinkle up the empty bag and grin proudly, so wide that it feels like my face is being stretched open.

"Jesus Christ," Peter says. "You _were_  hungry."

I just hold that dumb smile and look at him like he's made of an expensive metal, and, really, it feels like he is. His eyes are dark and green and marbled in his irides, and his skin is pale and shiny, and his hair is just as shiny as his skin, almost like he's too beautiful to be anything but synthetic. If someone were to ambush us in an alley, break Peter open, and reveal he was really just a mafia's organic carrying case for an absurd amount of platinum and gold, I would not be surprised.

Peter abandons his chair to come stand at my side and stroke my hair. He likes to stroke my hair. Sometimes, after a good feeding, he'll lie down next to me in bed and pet my head until we both fall asleep.

"You actually managed... to get crumbs in your hair."

I can't tell from his voice if he's angry or pleased; the tone he uses is both tender and rough, high and low, and it perplexes me. I've never been good with tones. I've spent half my life, basically, shrunk down and shivering from things that shouldn't have made me upset because they were never intended to in the first place, and I've never learned how to change it.

I put a hand, slick with grease, on the one of his hands left hanging at his side and clamp down, praying silently that he isn't angry at me. I don't know what he'd be angry at me for, but I do know that I really don't want him to get there.

He smiles at this, and I breathe a sigh of relief. Usually, I'd label its cause as being that my belly is so full I can't breathe over it, but I'm not quite there, yet. I have room for something else. My capacity has increased tremendously since I started gaining, and now meals that would take me multiple sittings to finish barely make a dent in the appetite of my insatiable inner pig.

"Good work, fatty," he says. "But you can't do more, can you?"

He raises an eyebrow, a smirk rising at the corner of his lips like someone took their fingers and pulled up his cheek on one side; I metaphorically leap out of my seat to correct him. Words burst out of my mouth before I can begin to link them all together and filter out redundancy.

"I can, Daddy! I can! I can eat anything for you!"

He chuckles but says nothing, lets go of my hand, and struts back to the sausages as if someone had just told him he had won an award that would earn him a lot of prestige. Head low, he leans over the hot stove, forehead pressed against the clear window of the mounted microwave, and checks them with the spatula, poking here and there. The grease sizzles and then pops, loud enough to shake the air; he stumbles back, and my heart skips into my throat.

He stands there for a moment, regaining his lost composure. His eyes circle the ground, and his breaths are anything but rhythmic.

Was he burned? I would feel terrible if he got burned cooking one of my meals. I'm already so overfed that if we abandoned our goal to make me immobile, one of the fattest people in the world, I could fast for couple of weeks or so and _just_  dip into the range of a healthy weight afterward. He doesn't need to cook for me at all. If he's hurt, he did a nice thing, and he got punished by fate for it.

"Goddamn," he grunts, and for a second, I think he's going to blame me, and call me a useless fatass, and walk out, just judging by the way he's breathing. He's left me once before, when we got in a very rare big argument over nothing, and I doubt he'd hesitate to do it again.

It was years ago, when he was still in college, and surely a dumb fight, because I don't even remember what it was over. He was taking a weekend to visit me in our current apartment; we were talking about something in the living room, and he got angry, and I remember that I was putting in no effort to defend myself, staying silent except for the begs and cries and maintained statements of my love leaving my mouth, meaning that all the venom came from his side. I'd sort of wedged myself between a chair and the couch to keep him from beating on me, something he'd done before, but as the threats of violence coming from him intensified, he slid me out, got on top of me, and wrapped his hands around my neck anyway and then threatened to leave me for what I'd done, whatever it was.

The threat became reality when he rolled off of me, something that really should have been more of a sign to me, packed his bag, and said he was going back to his dorm and that he never wanted to see me again. I cried for three hours straight until he finally phoned and apologized, then came back and spent the rest of the weekend with me as if nothing had happened.

It was entirely my fault back then, and it's entirely my fault now, because that's my food bubbling away in the grease. It's always my fault, because Peter is my perfect, loyal guardian who would never hurt me unless he had to, or we both agreed on it, like we are now, with him ruining my health on purpose.

Peter breathes in, and then out. "I think we're ready."

He shuffles up to the stove again, and with one hand reaches into the cupboard and snatches up a plate. With the other, he scoops up the hot sausages until they're all lined up on the plate, or, I assume they are, because I can't see into the pan from here. Then he sets the spatula in the sink, turns off the burner and slides the pan toward the back of the stove, and starts on his journey over to see me.

He sets the sausages on the table without grabbing a fork, and the pungent smell of fried flesh and seeping fat instantly explodes inside of my mouth. I catch myself drooling a bit, and swallow accordingly.

"We both want you to fucking balloon," Peter says. "So eat up."

He takes the other chair and slides it over toward me, with a groan of protest from the legs dragged over the floor, so he can sit beside me. Then, he sits down, tests a sausage with his fingers, and brings the entire length up to my mouth.

I bite in.

It's not as bad on the outside, but, inside, it's far too hot; I ignore the flesh in my mouth that threatens to blister and start to chew even though it's practically boiling against my lips and teeth and tongue and the sensitive skin webbing the inside of my cheeks.

The flavor, however, is better. They're juicy, and fatty, of course, and there's some kind of spice to the meat, and herbs—rosemary? Rosemary is a weird thing to find in a sausage, but no one ever complains about the pairing of meat and rosemary, and it works just fine, to the point that I'm surprised that it isn't a more common prominent flavor.

But I'm not here to pretend to be a  _Chopped_ judge and give a full critique on my food. If I eat right, I shouldn't even be tasting the stuff before it goes down to fill my gut and transform into glorious fat. Every bite is consumed not for taste, but to make me a little bit fatter than the last. That is the point. I eat not for immediate pleasure, but for the pleasure that comes from new stretch marks and split seams and saggier breasts.

I eat to grow.

And Peter is responsible for my growth. Every bit of it.

His gaze meets mine as I take my next bite, and, for a moment, we share a quiet understanding of what we are doing to each other. I am sacrificing my longetivity and my health to make him feel good. That is an unbreakable bond. I get one life, and I am trading it to make him happy; nothing could make us closer.

Soon, I've finished the sausage, and I don't even feel close to full. Peter might have to make me something else. A lot of things aren't worth saying around Peter, because he is so much stronger and smarter and braver than me that everything I say seems pathetic in comparison, but I feel like saying that will make his face light up, so I say it.

"I'm not even close to full. You might have to make me something else after this...."

Peter grins.

"Good boy, Drew."


End file.
